


I'll Be Home for Christmas

by raeldaza



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 07:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9063244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raeldaza/pseuds/raeldaza
Summary: Enjolras heads back to his tiny hometown for the first time in a decade since moving out to the city. While there, he meets up with some old friends, makes some new ones, and finds himself surprisingly reluctant to leave as Christmas comes to a close.Or, the ‘this is basically a Hallmark Christmas movie’ AU.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kjack89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/gifts).



> Written sort of kind of off kjack’s prompt. Written completely for her, as she deserves all the fic.
> 
> [prompt](http://kjack89.tumblr.com/post/154829241258/this-christmas-can-someone-write-me-a-fic)  
> As this was kind of a last-minute thing, it's not very plotty, more just trying to capture a certain experience. Hallmark inspired, but no specific one in mind.

A loaf of bread hit the back of Enjolras’s head. He jumped in his seat, and promptly hit himself in the eye with the hand that had been holding up his head.

“Sorry.” Enjolras looked up, rubbing his eye. His boss, Jean Valjean, was standing in the opening of his cubicle. “I meant to throw it over your head so it would land in your lap.”

“The annual Christmas loaf?” Enjolras bent down and picked it off the floor. “What flavor this year?”

“Peach.” At Enjolras’s eyebrow raise, Valjean shrugged. “I grew up in Georgia.”

Enjolras managed a smile. “Thanks.”

“You okay, kid?”

Enjolras didn’t know the answer, so he just shrugged. “I guess.”

“Please, rein in your enthusiasm.” At Enjolras's blank response, Valjean's smile dropped, and he walked into the cubicle. Since he was apparently staying, Enjolras dropped his pen onto his notepad, and sat back in his chair. “What has you down?”

Bitching at your boss has never really been a suggested coping technique, but at this point, he has basically no options beyond his mostly dead cactus, so he'll take what he can get.

“Do you remember the Vanwheelen case?” Enjolras asked.

Six months Enjolras had spent building the case file that the Valwheelen’s were neglecting their foster children. Six months of grueling work, interviews, paperwork, litigation review, trying to wheedle information out of partially starved children.

Valjean nodded.

“The judge settled it.” Valjean winced and Enjolras heaved a sigh. “Kids will stay in their care as long as the parents submit receipts to the review board proving they are buying an ‘appropriate’ amount of food.”

“I am so sorry, Enjolras.”

“I don’t even care about my record with the firm anymore." He drops Valjean's concerned gaze. "Those poor kids. And I promised them, Valjean. I promised my best and I promised I’d get them out of there. And all that proof - it’s nothing.” Valjean opened his mouth to speak, but Enjolras continued. “And moreover - what would have winning done anyway? They’d go back to a group home? Their last one was closed down by the health department! What’s the solution for these kids, anyway? Why, just because they drew the unlucky straw in life, do they lose the right to their own health? It’s bullshit, and nothing is helping them. Not their parents, not the system, and not even the law that’s supposed to be designed to protect them. It’s supposed to be a sword and a shield, but it’s like they are pointing the wrong directions.”

It fell quiet between the two of them. Two hours ago, Valjean had put Christmas music on the overhead speaker department. Mariah Carey’s quiet dulcet tones suddenly felt incredibly inappropriate.

“Enjolras,” Valjean began, and then hesitated.

"Go ahead, speak your mind."

“Don’t take this the wrong way, because I don’t mean it as a bad thing.”

“Yeah?”

“But perhaps you don’t have the personality for this type of job.”

Enjolras looked down, stung despite himself.

“See, that’s the expression I’ve been trying to avoid for months.”

“Months?” Valjean’s had these notions in his head that long? Something about that stung.

“Look kid.” Valjean perched himself against Enjolras’s desk. “You’re good at this, and you’ll never catch me even hinting that you’re not. You’re good because you’re tenacious, and strong-willed, and stubborn. And smart. However, you take every case so seriously.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “I’m not supposed to care?”

“You took a week off after you lost the Martin case,” Valjean gently reminded him. Enjolras looked away. His calendar was still on November, with no markings on it except for pay days. “Every flaw in the system, every problem case, every person you can’t help - it’s like it’s your siblings or something, Enjolras. It's rule number one of this job: you can’t save everyone.”

He paused, and then added, “Though you try.”

“You really think I’m not cut out for this?” Enjolras dropped his head in his hands, rubbing his face, suddenly exhausted.

“I think you could do this your whole life if you wanted to. Whether I think you’d feel fulfilled, or god forbid, be happy, is another matter entirely.”

“Maybe I’ll toughen up eventually, and stop letting every hopeless case get to me.”

“And you believe that will be a good thing for you?” Valjean asked.

Enjolras didn’t even have an answer.

Valjean pushed himself off Enjolras’s desk to pat him on the shoulder. “Look, Cosette mentioned to me that your mom called and invited you home for Christmas. Take the next two weeks, go home, and really think about what you want.”

“I don’t really want to go home, sir,” Enjolras protested. “I haven’t been back in a decade.”

“All the more reason.”

“But—”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.” While Enjolras knew that, technically, Valjean couldn’t dictate what he did on his off time, he somehow still felt indebted to do as he asked.

And, plus, he hadn't celebrated Christmas with anyone since he graduated, and he was tired.

As Valjean exited his cubicle, he called over his shoulder, “Don’t forget the peach bread.”

* * *

When Enjolras was a boy, he thought nothing could be worse than a small town Christmas. Possibly it was just boring by familiarity, but the tiny gestures the town made to celebrate seemed pathetic. The small nativity outside the church, the singular decorated Christmas tree at town hall, the workers in Christmas sweaters telling him to have a Merry Christmas - it was all just such an unpleasant reminder of their relative insignificance.

Now, Enjolras wasn’t sure anything was worse than a New York City Christmas.

He’d romanticized it as a teenager. The snow on the streets, the Rockefeller tree, the millions of jolly people, the thousands of lit stores, the massive nature of it.

His first year in University, it had almost lived up to expectations. He was able to ignore the angry people in the street, and how “holiday cheer” seemed foreign to everyone, and how a “white Christmas” really seemed to mean a “brown Christmas” just given all the dirt that polluted the white in under an hour from when it fell. It was still a massive spectacle.

No one told Enjolras that you get used to spectacle. It loses its allure after the third or fourth time, and afterwards, what remains is the heart behind it.

Which, in New York, Enjolras had been having a hard time finding.

The cloudy, grey sky was a perfect backdrop for his mood as he walked back to his Brooklyn apartment. Crowded pavements surrounded the busy street, filled with the hustle and bustle of people two weeks before Christmas.

Perhaps he was just doomed to discontent, he thought gloomily, pushing past an older man yelling on his cell phone so he could turn onto his street. 

His door had been graffitied again, this time with a swastika, and he briefly wondered if he should have gone into politics instead of social law, if only to prevent this rising tide of white establishment politics.

The thought dropped from his mind as he walked into his apartment and saw that he forgot to do the dishes the night before.

He unwove the scarf from his neck and placed it on his kitchen table, next to four dirty mugs, and spent far too many seconds simply staring at its red and white fabric.

With a sigh, he took his cell phone out of his pocket, and dialed speed dial two.

“Enjolras?”

“Hi Mom. Is the offer to come home still open?”

* * *

There were things Enjolras would do, and driving the 14-hour drive back home to upstate Michigan in the middle of December in a vehicle with a broken heater was absolutely not one of them.

The airport was busier than it normally would be at five o’clock in the morning, but less than he’d imagined for being so close to Christmas. There weren’t a lot of options for where he was going; their small, tiny airport only could house about five planes, so he was forced to take whatever flight was offered to him.

The flight into Detroit was uneventful. His five-hour layover was spent in the basement cafe of the Detroit Institute of Arts, directly across from a golden donkey, the only touchable piece of art in the museum. He had spent a good twenty minutes trying to interest himself in the paintings; he’d enjoyed History of Art in college well enough, but only when his professor had taken the time to explain each and every painting. He gave up and went for a coffee somewhere in the middle of American abstract paintings, staring at a Mark Rothko until he truly couldn’t stand it any longer.

He touched the donkey’s head before leaving, and headed back to the airport.

The flight upstate was slightly more chaotic. Since they were going to such a tiny airport about thirty miles outside his hometown, they only had small, five-seater airplanes. The Cessna was operable, but was blown in the wind like paper.

By the end, it was late evening, and he was thoroughly nauseous.

In true Michigan fashion, it was icy and bitterly cold. The short walk from the plane to the airport had his eyes watering, and he had lost all feeling in the tips of his ears.

He walked through the doors, and was first struck by the warmth, which was almost painful to his freezing limbs.

He was struck second by the familiarity.

It’d be almost a decade, and yet it looked almost exactly the same. The same portrait of the Edmund Fitzgerald above the help desk, the same blue and white walls, the same fish tank in the corner. The carpeting had changed, and apparently they had finally got around to taking out the phone booth - but otherwise, it was his home, where he last flew out to begin his college career. He couldn’t have been happier to leave at the time.

His emotions were more ambivalent now; he wasn’t even sure how he felt.

Cold, mostly.

He shook his head to clear it and stepped up to the front desk.

The receptionist was an older woman with a bright green Grinch Christmas sweater that actually had glowing lights on his hat. When he walked up and stopped at the desk, she lifted her head, and her face brightened.

“Hi Enjolras!”

He stared. “You know me?”

“I’ve know your mother and your picture is all over her house! It’s mighty fine to meet you, boy.”

This part of small towns he had managed to forget. “Nice to meet you.” He put out a hand, which she shook with a little laugh.

“What can I help you with?”

“Rental car, please.”

She cocked her head. “Oh, sweetie, we haven’t done those for going on five years.”

Dread spread through him. “You always had the small garage, right out back. Mr. Monnin had it?”

“Oh, he retired and moved to Arizona last year! Couldn’t handle the weather, I’m afraid. Such a darling man.”

“And the place shut down?”

“There just wasn’t much of a need for it. Most people who come in come in for family. Haven’t had anyone even ask since Rosa.”

“But my mom doesn’t have a car,” he said weakly.

“That’s right, I forgot! Well, let me see. I could have my kid come in and drive you back.”

“Oh God, that’s not necessary,” Enjolras said quickly, shaking his head. “I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

“Pish POSH,” she said loudly. He flinched back on instinct. “It will be no trouble! Oh, darn, he has Tuba lessons tonight. I wonder if there’s anyone with a free car…” She snaps her fingers. “That new car technician! Darlene’s boy! I know he has rental cars! Last year, my transmission broke down right on the interstate. _Four cars_ passed me while I was in limp mode - do you know how scary that was? I could have been HIT.”

Enjolras had a flashback to when he was first learning to drive, and three cars passed them on their home street. His mom had said, “What is this, grand central station?”

At the time, he didn’t know what that was.

“Anyway, he’s a dear boy. I bet he’d be willing to bring one up for you, dear.”

“That’d be great, if you could give him a call.”

She beamed at him. “Just take a seat by Nemo over there, and I’ll take care of it completely. Don’t you worry bout a thing, dear.”

He took a seat in the plush armchair and watched the fish swim by. He wondered how fast word would make it around town that he was back. Given how much the receptionist was texting, word was probably already traveling.

A half hour later, the door opened wide brushing in a wave of cold air, and Enjolras shivered. A man ambled through the door, bundled up in a heavy work coat and head completely covered by a massive ear-flapped hat. He took it off to shake off the dusting of snow, and Enjolras sat up slightly straighter.

He looked familiar, vaguely, so there was a good chance he had grown up there as well. He was tall, with messy hair and slightly too small of features to be classically handsome.

Still, he was cute, which didn’t really happen in this town, so Enjolras made an effort to have on a genuine smile as he rose to greet him.

“So you’re…” The man faltered halfway through his sentence. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Uh,” Enjolras said. “Yes?”

“Enjolras.”

“Oh, do we know each other?”

He thought he said it politely, but with the way his expression immediately drops, he doubted he managed it.

“Did. We went to high school together. And a year of middle school.”

Enjolras stepped forward, eyes now scrutinizing. Something about him did ring a faint bell, off in the distance of his mind, but he couldn’t quite place it.

Then the man shifted his weight and cracked his neck, and it clicked.

“Grantaire.” Grantaire startled slightly, looking taken aback. “You did the practical course.” Enjolras had done the academic one. It was their school’s moronic way to separate who would and wouldn’t go to college so they could ‘focus’ their teaching. “But we had several of the general courses together. English a couple years, biology, math, and—”

“Computer applications,” Grantaire finished.

“Right. You liked to draw. And you had a lime green backpack.”

“It certainly was a brand.” Enjolras didn’t miss the quiet “apparently” he muttered a moment later. “What are you doing back?”

“Christmas.”

“You haven’t come back before.”

“You’d know?”

“It’s a small town and your mother works for the grocery store. Everyone would know.”

Which was true. “You need a lift to her place?”

“Yeah, if you can manage it.”

“Yep, no problem. I’ll drop you off tonight and then drop off a rental tomorrow morning when the shop reopens. Let me get a cup of the complimentary coffee before we head out.”

Enjolras watched him walk away. He was older now, a good ten years older, but something else about him seemed distinctly _different._ From what he remembered, which wasn’t a lot, Grantaire had been unsettled in his youth. The talkative, stupid boy in the back who everyone assumed had problems at home, but never cared enough to ask. He’d been unattractive by most accounts back then, though Enjolras was quick to admit that he’d been superficial enough in those days that he may easily be passing unfair judgment.

He’s not unattractive now, but it’s something more in his manner than his appearance; a settled confidence that gave off the air of control.

Grantaire had been moody, talkative, melancholy, and brooding in high school. Enjolras couldn’t help but wonder what happened.

“Let’s go,” Grantaire said, Styrofoam cup in one hand, other holding open the door.

Enjolras hurried to follow.

*

They were both quiet, Grantaire clutching the wheel noticeably hard, and Enjolras twisting his hands in his lap. They haven’t managed to come up with anything of substance to say. Enjolras actually commented on the weather a minute ago, which made him want to crawl under the dashboard and die.

Grantaire cracked his neck, and glanced at Enjolras out of the side of his eyes. “So, the Big Apple. How has it been treating you?”

“It’s fine.” Enjolras did not want to discuss this with anyone, let alone a stranger. “And how is it here?”

“Eh, you know how it is. Mostly the same. Construction moved from Squirrel St. to Possum Creek Rd. A new pizza joint, a third liquor store, Mr. Johnson sold his shop and turned it into a coffee shop, the library got a new shelf for bestsellers.” Grantaire scratched his ear. “Combeferre and Courfeyrac got married?”

“No shit, really?” Enjolras had been close to both in school but had lost touch as the years went by. He had long suspected they had some sort of lingering feelings towards each other, but neither had made a move when Enjolras was around.

“Yeah.” Grantaire smiled, and Enjolras felt himself relax. He hadn’t even known he was tense. Michigan isn’t Texas, but the northern, rural portions might as well be. “They didn’t even date, the idiots. They went to the same college—” Northwestern, if Enjolras remembered correctly. “—and roomed together. Combeferre commutes there now as an assistant professor, and Courfeyrac started a nonprofit with a friend from college. Anyway, they just kept living together without saying a word. Then, two years ago, the three of us were at the marketplace. Remember Beets, Beats, and Eats?” How could Enjolras forget? “Anyway, a shopkeeper had some homemade jewelry. Courfeyrac pointed at a ring and said, ‘if someone were to propose to me, I’d want that one.’ And then Combeferre picked it up and purchased it without a word. Married at a courthouse the next day.”

“Well, that’s adorable and romantic. Good for them.”

“Been happily living in the old Robertson house for about a year now.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Enjolras would have to look them up when he was home and congratulate them. He casted a glance to Grantaire, who had relaxed slightly during the story. “And you? What have you been up to?”

“There wasn’t any vocational schools close enough to go to around here, and there aren’t dorms for community colleges. With the whole track in high school I was kind of stuck. Ended up working at the mechanic to pass the time. The owner, Mr. Madeleine, taught me a lot. Gave it over to me when his sister, the nun, dropped out of the convent. Been working there since.”

“Good for you.”

“I’m happy,” Grantaire shrugged.

It was such a little, nothing thing to say, and Grantaire threw it out without a second thought. Two words Enjolras hadn’t been able to say for years, and it had him staring at Grantaire for just a bit too long.

*

They pulled up to Enjolras’s house well after dark. His mom went all out this year with the Christmas lights, and they are an annoyingly bright LED white. It hurt his eyes slightly.

“This is yours, right?”                 

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Had to drive your mom around a couple times.”

“Oh.” He would be asking his mom about that later. “Well, thank you.”

“No problem. I’ll drop the rental off tomorrow morning. Keep it till you’re done, and then you can drop it off with whoever is at the airport. I’ll get it later.”

“And payment?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire flipped his hand. “Don’t worry about it. A welcome home present.”

“I couldn’t _possibly._ ”

“Car has 200,000 miles on it. You’re not going to depreciate the value,” Grantaire said, amused.

“It wouldn’t feel right. At least let me have your number, so I can text you if I can think of another way to make it up to you?”

Grantaire stared, and Enjolras was quite sure that wasn’t as smooth as he hoped it’d be.

Slowly, Grantaire reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, an archaic flip phone, and handed it over, obviously bemused.

Quickly, Enjolras added his name and number. He forgot how annoying it was to type on a numbered keypad.

Grantaire took the cell back, muttering something suspiciously close to, “a car is all it fucking took,” and put it back in his pocket.

“Alright, out you get. I gotta close up the shop.”

Enjolras awkwardly ambled out of the car, feet almost slipping several times as he walked to the back to get his suitcase out. After he had it in his hands and the back door closed, he stuck his head back through the passenger door.

“Really, thanks again.”

“See you later,” was all Grantaire answered. Enjolras shut the door and Grantaire pulled out of the driveway.

Enjolras turned, and was suddenly facing his childhood home.

It looked exactly the same, except she had replaced the wood of the steps and the giant maple in their front yard had lost a large branch.

His throat felt too cottony than the situation called for, and he found himself swallowing several times as he walked up the steps.

The door was unlocked, because of course it was.

The house was warm and bright and smelled like chocolate cookies. He could hear his mother humming in the kitchen.

With the close of the door, the humming stopped, and she poked her head into the living room. When she caught sight of him, her face brightened. She dropped a hot mitt on the table and beckoned him over.

“Sweetheart,” she said, pulling him into a hard hug when he got to her side. He put his head on her shoulder. “I made you cookies. You still like the chocolate chunks instead of the chips, right?”

No one had cooked for him since he moved out, and, suddenly, he found himself blinking back tears.

* * *

The next morning, there was a bright red pickup truck outside his house. It made Enjolras pause, before it clicked that he’d seen it in the school parking lot for three years. It was probably Grantaire’s old car.

It smelled like him, a dusty, tobacco scent that lingered in the seats.

First stop, the grocery store.

*

They had rearranged their dairy section, and it took four minutes and a nice teenager bagger for Enjolras to find the cinnamon rolls his mother had requested he pick up.

When he put the item on the conveyer belt, the cashier turned and beamed at him.

“You’re Enjolras! Your mother shows us your picture on her little mobile picture phone thing!”

“I’m he,” Enjolras confirmed.

“She was so excited yesterday during her shift. Kept talking about all she wanted to do with you. Have you gone out yet?”

“Not yet. We stayed in and baked cookies and watched some Christmas specials last night.”

“Well, isn’t that just lovely?”

The transaction took a good three minutes for a single item, but it warmed Enjolras slightly for a reason he can’t quite name.

As he was making to leave, he caught sight of the Christmas stockings they hung for each employee. He located his mom’s quickly, third from the left. It was made with gold glitter and several stars, and he unconsciously stared at it until a man accidentally bumped into him with a cart.

* * *

To his slight surprise, Enjolras remembered where the old Robertson house was. It had stood next to the Panera Bread, which he was disappointed to see had closed down. Back in high school, after he’d exhausted the grocery store and gas station, that was the only place to hang out after school. He’d stayed there for hours after school every day, until his senior year, when the manager had kicked him on suspicion of drug dealing.

He hadn’t been, though the boy who liked to smoke outside the pizza place definitely had.

He parked the car on the street, and found himself suddenly a bit nervous. He hadn’t spoken to either of them in about eight years and had no idea if they’d appreciate a random visit.

Combeferre’s old, beat up Pontiac was in the driveway, so he was at least home. Probably.

Telling himself to suck it up, he stepped from the car, and made his way to the doorknob.

The knocker was a face, and Enjolras recognized it from their senior high school play, _A Christmas Carol_ , after it had turned into Jacob Marley.

He pounded on the door and waited.

“One minute!” A voice from inside rang, and he instantly knew it was Courfeyrac.

The door was wrenched open, and there he was, in his five feet six inch glory, his hair much shorter than Enjolras had ever seen it.

He aged well, his lines firming a bit and bulking out where he’d been lanky. His eyes were as green as ever, and they widened in surprise.

“Oh my God, I thought Debra at the store was kidding!”

He flew forward to hug him, knocking Enjolras off balance.

“Oh, I’ve missed you!” Courfeyrac said into his shoulder, and Enjolras hugged him tighter.

*

Combeferre’s greeting was milder but no less heartfelt. They’ve offered Enjolras a piece of pumpkin pie, his favorite, while they recounted their romance.

“Not everyone has been great, but enough people have. We’re happy.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I always hoped you two would work out.”

“And you knew too.” Courfeyrac groaned, his head in his hands. “Grantaire said we were obvious, but you knew us well in high school. That’s just embarrassing.”

“How did you become friends with Grantaire?”

“Oh, same as most people. He owns the only tow truck in a fifty mile radius and I got stuck in a snow bank. He offered to let me stay in his house while he plowed my driveway, and I cried, and that was about that.”

“He seems nice. I don’t remember him much from high school.”

“We know,” Combeferre laughed, and Enjolras didn’t understand what he meant.

A slightly awkward silence descended.

“So, what is your nonprofit about?” Enjolras asked.

Courfeyrac brightened. “It’s a foster care for children in Northern Michigan.”

“Oh wow,” Enjolras said, surprised. “That’s great.”

“Funding has been an issue,” Combeferre said, placing a hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “Not a lot of people here are willing to donate to a gay couple, and neither of us have the kind of experience to get grants from the state.”

“Well, you may be in luck.”

Combeferre took a sip of coffee. “Why is that?”

“I have two weeks off, and did I ever tell you what my specialty in law is? If you have a grant in mind; I’ll get you the grant.”

“Oh my God,” Courfeyrac said. “Can I make you a cake?”

*

“I should probably get going.” Enjolras stood. “I don’t want to outstay my welcome.”

“Oh no, wait,” Courfeyrac jumped up from his seat. “We we’re about to head to the nonprofit, Amity, in just a minute. We’re getting the whole gang to go Christmas caroling. Would you join us?”

“Oh.” There was no polite way to refuse. “I’m not a good singer.”

Courfeyrac leveled him a look. “We’re going with a whole bunch of pre-teens. You’ll fit right in.”

*

He did not fit right in.

But, to Enjolras’s slight comfort, neither did 6'4" Combeferre, and he still braved the awkwardness, his arm firmly slung around Courfeyrac’s shoulders.

They’ve gone around town to the local businesses, serenading the workers and generally making themselves an accepted nuisance. The library was the most accepting by far, taking them directly in and gathering the staff. Enjolras was pleasantly surprised to see his favorite librarian, Mrs. Norris, was still around. She gave a warm hug before leaving, whispering in his ear how glad she was to see him looking healthy and tall.

The only one to directly kick them out was the town psychologist; to her defense, Enjolras hadn’t come out to see the carolers that Valjean hired for a pretty penny. There’s something about listening to people’s problems all day that made it hard to smile at holiday tunes.

Enjolras knew more of the lyrics than he expected, though he just mouthed “watermelon” during the entirety of “Santa Baby.” He was also not sure why they had a group of pre-teens singing “Santa Baby” in the first place, because, predictably, it made all the boys giggle and all the girls awkward.

They were coming up to the last street on their map, and as they turned the corner, the old mechanic shop came into view. The name on the sign still read _Mr. Madeleine’s_ , though Enjolras was somehow sure it was more of a honoring thing than a Scrooge thing.

Grantaire was underneath an old Ford, but he wheeled out as he heard them approach. His long sleeved grey shirt was covered in grease, as was his hair and face, but his smile was wide and true, and something in Enjolras clenched.

It’d been awhile since he’d had an immediate infatuation (second year of university, an RA on the floor above him, very ill-advised and short lived), and it wasn’t an exactly welcome feeling.

By the time Grantaire’s gathered the rest of his staff, Enjolras’s stomach was tied in enough knots that singing felt like a trial.

He faked his way through Frosty the Snowman and completely gave up on the Twelve Days of Christmas, but he did manage to get it together enough to sing an entire verse of O Holy Night.

They gathered themselves to leave, throwing out _Merry Christmases_ and _Happy Holidays_ to the staff. He had to admit, with a grudging smile as he watched Grantaire thank Courfeyrac, that he could have picked a worse person to engage his previously dead libido.

When he turned to go, he caught a glimpse of Grantaire waving a wrench in goodbye.

* * *

The next several days were enjoyably calm. His mother baked several more batches of cookies and candy for an annual fundraiser, and had him learning to knit so he could donate some homemade goods to the church.

He probably wouldn’t finish in time, but it was a skill he had always wanted to learn, and he was grateful for her unending patience and guidance.

Five days into his visit, and a week from Christmas, she asked if he would be willing to accompany her to the annual tree-lighting ceremony out near town hall. He agreed, if only to not be home alone.

“Here, sweetheart, take this hat.” She handed him a black one that had seen better days. “I can’t believe you didn’t bring one. After eighteen years, have you honestly forgotten what living in Michigan is like?”

“Sorry,” he apologized. “I just wasn’t thinking. New York’s cold, but it’s not you’ll-lose-an-ear-without-a-hat cold, like this.”

“Well,” she said, and reached up to wrap a scarf around his neck. “You just got to come back some more so you don’t forget.”

She patted the lapels of his jacket, and he felt like worst son on Earth.

*

“Grantaire!” Enjolras exclaimed, holding his chest in surprise. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“I got that, actually,” he said. It had sounded like he had fallen hard, and his coffee was most certainly a lost cause. However, he just huffed a laugh and managed to stand without too much trouble, so he probably wasn’t hurt.

“Are you okay?”

“Just fine, just fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“May I buy you a new coffee?” Enjolras’s mother asked, which made Grantaire smile and Enjolras cringe.

“Oh God, no, I should do it. I ran into him. Mom, you don’t have to.”

“Neither of you have to,” Grantaire interrupted his babbling. “It was almost empty anyway.”

“If you’re sure, dear,” she said.

“Of course, ma’am,” which has his mother beaming in a way Enjolras rarely saw.

“You are here for the lighting?”

“‘Course, come every year. It’s lovely.”

It was.

It was how Enjolras remembered it, mostly, but it seemed like more than before.

The sidewalks in town were lined with candlelit paper lanterns, twinkling and glowing in the light breeze of the night air. Each streetlight had been adorned with a wreath and garland. The street shops are lined with colored lights aglow in the night. The nativity outside the main church was lit, with a halo around both Jesus and Mary, which was rather confusing given it was a Baptist church, but everyone was enjoying their live donkey and sheep. The grocery store had a stand selling hot cider and warm, glazed pecans, and it smelled up the entire side of the street. Snow was gently drifting down, picture perfect, almost making the frigid air seem festive instead of uncomfortable. And the town pine was beautiful - the seventeen foot tree was covered in red bulbs and large colored lights, bulbs the size of Enjolras’s fist, and silver garland wrapping from top to bottom.

Lewis Carroll had a quote in one of his novels, Enjolras remembered, about how children lose their “muchness” as they lose their innocence.

It’s not a precise term, but somehow, he felt that the town had become a whole lot muchier since he had been a cynical and angry teenager.

“It is. Do you know how long until they light the tree?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

Enjolras groaned. “That’s so long to wait.”

“Fifteen minutes?” Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t a New York minute faster? Should that be nothing to you?”

“But we’re not in New York,” Enjolras pointed out. “So the minutes feel slower.”

“You’ve become impatient in your old age.”

It was just teasing, he knew, but he felt chastised anyway.

“It doesn’t seem long to you in the cold?”

“I’m familiar with waiting,” Grantaire responded, and, for a reason Enjolras couldn’t pinpoint, Grantaire’s hand visibly twitched.

Enjolras leaned his weight over to Grantaire’s side, their arms brushing. It was extremely cold, and his warmth was as good as a siren song.

“So, you haven’t talked much about NYC. How was getting out of here?”

Enjolras shrugged. “It’s very different.”

Grantaire laughed, his breath visible in the cold air. He bounced on the balls of his feet, presumably for warmth. “I guessed that. Given you didn’t come back after NYU, I guess you got a job out there?”

“I do social work litigation. It requires a paralegal degree, not a law one, so I was able to get it after minimal schooling.”

“Social work, eh?” Grantaire said, looking thoughtful. “I thought you were going to become a big business lawyer.”

Enjolras frowned. The thought of himself in high school is embarrassing enough that he usually refused to dwell on it, but he couldn’t imagine what he’d done to give Grantaire that impression. “Why do you say that?”

“No reason, I suppose. You were just big into debate team, and I seem to remember a petition for a logic class.”

Enjolras flushed. That one had failed. Turned out you needed to have a teacher who had actually been educated in a class before the school board will make a new class.

“I found that I changed a bit in university.” He bounced on his heels, and it was slippery enough he put his hand on his mother’s shoulder, who had been standing silent for the entire conversation. “Logic and reason became far less important to me than basic kindness.”

“And why’s that?”

“Not all people behave according to logic, but people will always respond to kindness. Respecting and valuing people for who they are, even their failures, sometimes demands sympathy and empathy beyond what reason will allow - and that kind of compassion is what seems to be needed to make a difference in the life of the individual. Or so I’ve found.”

Grantaire nodded, but didn’t answer, looking down at his feet with too much interest to be casual.

Then his mother asked about the shop, and the conversation stayed light until the tree was lit.

* * *

Amity was in the old quilting shop. Apparently Mrs. Beavers had died of heart complications four years earlier. Enjolras would miss her; she’d given him root beer suckers when his mother had taken a long time looking at patterns.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting of the inside; probably a large living space with a tree, some couches, tables set up with arts and crafts.

What he got was a receptionist and waiting room, and he had to remind himself to stop guessing things with his only frame of reference being TV specials.

He was told Coufeyrac would only be a minute and to take a seat. He and the receptionist genially chatted about The Food Channel for several minutes until she had to leave to get a first aid kit for a resident. It was quiet in the room after that, only the faint sounds of life coming from the other side of the door.

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac greeted from the doorway. Enjolras stood from his armchair and let the cooking magazine drop from his hand. “Come in the back, we’ll get started.”

Courfeyrac led him straight into what appeared to be his office. It was a rather small, dark room with a lamp in the corner, several large bookcases lining the walls, and a cluttered desk with stacks of papers literal feet tall.

“Ignore the mess. I’d give you an excuse about the holidays, but as a present, Combeferre came and cleaned my office last week, so this is just me failing as a human being.”

“I don’t mind,” Enjolras said, taking in the dozens of child drawings tacked onto his wall. He found himself smiling. He shook his head to clear it, and turned around to face Courfeyrac. “So, who was your previous grant writer? What experience did they have? Mostly writing or mostly social work?”

“Uh.” Courfeyrac fell into his office chair. “It was me, so, uh, social work, I suppose, unless you count college composition as writing experience.”

“What? You don’t have a contract writer?”

“We don’t have the funding,” Courfeyrac explained. “The grant we’re going for now would let us take one on, Lord fucking willing, but it’s for hundreds of thousands of dollars, and they say the minimum page number for the grant is 90 pages long, Enjolras, and I am trying to look after a couple dozen children, and buy a present for my husband - do you know how hard it is to surprise that man? And—”

“Okay,” Enjolras interrupted. “Get me the grant, and you go get yourself some snacks. I’ll get started.”

*

The knock on the door made Enjolras jump. Courfeyrac was standing in the doorway. “Sorry to startle you. It’s past eight - you might want to get home before the snow hits.”

Enjolras blinked. “Past eight? No way, it’s only four.” He looked at his watch. “Or fourteen past eight. Huh. God, when did it pass eight?”

“Fourteen minutes ago. Did you get very far?”

“Yeah, yeah." He started organizing the files into piles instead of the haphazard mess he had laying about. "I got a good start. I’m trying to make you a very clear set of instructions, as I won’t be able to finish this before I go back to New York. I’m currently working on your budget, part two.”

“Thank you for this. Truly.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s the most fun I’ve had in years.” Sad, but accurate. He stood and shrugged on his coat. “Before I leave, though, I wanted to ask - who is that?”

The only picture in a frame in all of Courfeyrac’s office was one of him with a young boy, probably six or seven. They’re hugging at a swingset, arms around one another, smiles bright, and if Enjolras didn’t know better, it’d look like a kid and his parent.

“That’s Gavroche. He was our first kid here. He’s the Thenardier son. Technically, his sister Eponine had custody, but we took him in when she decided to go to college to get a job to support him. He’s back with her now, but he was the first one here, so his picture is up, like they do with dollar bills. His idea.”

“Eponine Thenardier. She was the emo one, right?”

Courfeyrac leveled him with a look. “Don’t call her that.”

“Sorry." He sighed. "I am just kind of realizing on this trip that, in high school, I didn’t pay that much attention to anyone other than myself.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s okay. Teenagers are selfish and stupid - goes with the grounds.” He paused.  “You should meet him if you can, maybe interview him to understand more the kids point of view, if it can help with the grant. Cool kid, if a bit...precocious. He lives with Eponine and Grantaire.”

“Oh.”

“They moved in together after Grantaire’s apartment complex was knocked down with the ‘13 tornado.” Enjolras remembered something about that. His mom had written him a handwritten letter, he thought.

He can’t think of a way to ask subtly, so he just asks outright. “Are they dating?”

“No,” Courfeyrac laughed. “God, you really were blind in high school, weren’t you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Courfeyrac just laughed again. “You need to go - the snow is starting.”

* * *

“Oh, Enjolras, I’m glad you’re home, I was getting hot!”

He had just walked through the door, still bundled in his winter apparel. He blinked, hand stopped halfway to taking his hat off. His mom looked ready to walk out the door and into the snow flurries. “What?”

“I want to build a snowman with you. I’ve been in this coat for a half hour waiting for you to come home.”

“The snow made the roads bad.” He paused. “You want to make a snowman?”

“You’re my son. You don’t get an option.” She brushed past him and opened up the door, walking outside. Bemused, he turned to follow.

*

The snowman ended up with her hat and his scarf, sticks for arms, pinecones for eyes, and rocks for buttons. It was cold enough that the snow didn’t pack well; it was more powdery than ideal, but they were able to finagle a moderately sized man, whom she quickly christened “Charlie,” the name she gave every inanimate object that needed a moniker.

“Don’t touch it; I don’t want his head to disintegrate.”

“Okay.” He rubbed his mittened hands together, but his pinkies were well past the point of redness and had descended into complete numbness. “Are you sure you want to use my scarf? I’ll need it back by Christmas.”

“Why so early?”

“I thought I told you on the phone. My plane leaves Christmas evening.”

She stared at him a little too long. “Oh, that’s right.”

“I just don’t want him to be neck-garment-less still during Christmas.”

“I’ll replace it tomorrow.” She was not meeting his eye, and he may have not lived in the house for a decade, but he still knew the tone of her voice when she was upset.

“Mom, look, I’m sorry I’m not staying later. It’s just—” When he booked the tickets, he thought he’d want nothing more than to leave. “—I have to be back to work the next morning.”

“It’s okay, Enjolras,” she said, patting him on the arm. “I’m just glad you’re here at all.”

The blatant sincerity of her voice was just a crushing guilt.

* * *

A negative of small towns: trying to avoid someone in a small town was nigh impossible. A positive of small towns: on the other hand, accidentally running into people you actually wanted to see became highly likely when there was only one coffee shop within forty miles, and it was seven o’clock in the morning.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras greeted warmly. “How is your shop treating you?”

“Another Chrysler 200 transmission problem,” he responded glumly. “I hate transmission work; it takes forever and it’s expensive for everyone. Whoever decided to put dog clutches in a nine-speed needs to be fired.”

“Ah. Of course,” Enjolras responded, nodding sagely.

Grantaire face transformed with his smile. “Not a car guy?”

“Cars have wheels. Four of them, usually.”

Grantaire laughed, incredulous. “You were our valedictorian.”

“Conjugating verbs and memorizing theories did not prepare me for changing car tires.”

"Maybe you would have been if you had taken car shop as an elective.”

“That was available?”

“No. Fuck our school system.”

“Hear hear,” Enjolras agreed, tone a touch too serious.

“ _You_ didn’t like our school?” Grantaire asked, disbelieving. “Everyone actually liked _you_.”

“That doesn’t mean I think it prepared me well for the world. Nor does it mean I liked everyone back. I was miserable most of the time.”

“Really? I never would have known.”

He was probably making Grantaire late, but he’d continue to talk until he was told to shut up.

“Back then, I felt like I was suffocating. It’s just, small town life is, just, well. This place is nothing to most of the world, just a little spot on a map, a town with an unemployment rate that equals its voter turnout in the Senate elections, and there is 195 countries out there with 8 billion more people, more interesting people with more interesting experiences and living in more cultured areas, and here I was in a nothing town being pressured into making lifelong decisions based on my tiny world view - and I don’t know. I was miserable, and I cracked. I had to go.”

“That’d explain why you never came back.”

“Well, here I am.”

“Here you are,” Grantaire agreed. “And if you don’t mind me asking, why?”

To fulfill a promise to his boss?

Somehow, it felt wholly inadequate. Really, in truth, it was less _why_ he came and far more that he couldn’t come up with many reasons why _not._ He’d escaped to find something more, and the days had come one after the other, and then two years passed, and then five years passed, and then ten years passed, and suddenly it felt like he had left himself somewhere along the way.

“To visit.”

It was obvious Grantaire knew that wasn’t the whole story, but there was little chance he wanted to hear Enjolras try to recap his personal emotions that barely even made sense to him before the sun rose in the middle of a coffee shop on a Tuesday.

“Well, regardless, it’s nice to see you back again and doing well. I probably wouldn’t ever move away from here, but I’d always admired you for it.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Grantaire shrugged. “I mean, I look at birds and wonder why they don’t fly to Europe. And then I realize it’s far easier for me to do so than them, and I still sit here on my ass. You just had that invincible courage I don't.”

And, after that, he couldn't help it, blurting it out with absolutely no thought, the warmth clawing at his chest unbearably, “Would you like to get dinner with me tonight?”

Grantaire blinked several times.

He shifted his weight before answering, slowly, “I mean, sure, but what for?”

“What for?” He didn’t know an appropriate answer, and took a sip of coffee to stall. “To eat, I guess.” He swallowed. Might as well at least try to be brave. “And the more I see of you, the more I like you. And I’m interested in learning more.”

“Enjolras, I don’t even want to be around me. Why would someone like you want to be around me?”

“You’re cute.” Grantaire’s eyes widened, and Enjolras blushed. “You are, sue me. And you’re nice, and seem funny, and you know, other attractive stuff. One dinner?”

“Jesus, you actually meant it like that. Jesus Christ.” He looked up to the ceiling, and Enjolras was starting to gain a bad feeling.

“You don’t have to say yes—”

“Sure, yes, I’ll go,” Grantaire interrupted. “I’d hate myself if I said no, so what the hell, it’s one night, and you’ll be gone in less than a week. So yeah, let’s get dinner. After my shift, at 7? Where did you have in mind?”

Enjolras definitely hadn’t gotten that far. “Uh, well, there’s three restaurants within twenty miles. So, uh, the diner, McDonald’s, or Chinese?”

“Chinese,” Grantaire decided. “Meet you there.”

* * *

"Could you help me?"

Enjolras startled. He'd been browsing down aisle five, a little dejected, when a young woman had appeared behind him like she'd been transported.

"I'm trying to finish decorating for Christmas, and I'm too short to hang the wreath. Think you could help?"

"Lead the way," he said.

The store is nice and festive, lots of garland and candy canes on the wall. The wreath is a nice touch.

"Thanks," she said as he stepped down from the step ladder. "The church is doing this thing where they stop by all the stores that are open on Christmas Eve, and they take photos, and my boss wanted the place to look nice before the photos go on their Facebook."

She kicked the footstool out of the way, and it travels halfway across the store and hits an aisle end with a resounding thud. Enjolras was initially concerned, but then he remembered the unending boredom of working at one of these stores, and the fact that her boss was probably getting high in the back, and kept his mouth shut.

She apparently noticed his expression anyway. "It's fine. He's at the Christmas play in town."

Oh, right. He'd skipped that. 

Something about a high school's performance of The Nativity didn't really interest him. 

"I won't tell," is all he can think to say.

"Can I help you with anything?"

"Do you have any flowers?" Enjolras asked. The grocery store didn't have any, the hardware store didn't have any, so he was at his last hope, a tiny pet store.

It was, admittedly, a long shot.

"Dear me, what for?"

"A date," he responded, and desperately hoped she didn't ask for more information.

"Ey, nice dude. Just the season for romance too. I don't have any flowers, but I know that Mejier or Walmart has some, if you're willing to drive down to them."

"Sixty-five miles?"

"Roughly, though the state police officer that is stationed in that forest's wife just had a kid, so he's off, so you can speed there. Might take it down to only an hour."

"I don't have time, but thanks."

She frowned. "I could sell you a poinsettia we have as a decoration?"

"Nah, it's okay." He turned to go.

"Good luck, dude," she called after him. "Woo her!"

"I intend to," he said over his shoulder.

* * *

Enjolras’s mom had smirked at him the entire night as he got ready. He should have known she’d take note of his pointed questions about where Grantaire had driven her, and should have known better than to tell her the truth about tonight; she always teased him that he was only interested in men who could double as a starving artist, and Grantaire wasn’t exactly a counter example.

“Have a fun time!” She called from the kitchen.

“Uh huh,” he said, and made sure to slam the door on his way out. It made him feel like a teenager, but he knew it’d make his mom laugh, which was enough to have him smile all the way out to his car. 

* * *

“Lord, it looks like Santa jacked off in here.”

Enjolras turned to stare at Grantaire, who, at the look, gestured to the copious amounts of fake snow tacked to the ceiling.

“It's like festive semen?”

Enjolras shook his head at him, eyes large.

“Okay. Yep, bad start. Never mind. Let’s sit.”

The restaurant was empty save their waitress, a bored looking redhead named Ireland who was texting at the cash register.

“Thanks for agreeing to come,” Enjorlas said, taking a seat.

“Of course,” Grantaire replied, shrugging off his coat and sitting down. “I couldn’t not.”

“Why?”

Grantaire snorted. He opened his menu and began scanning it, but apparently felt Enjolras’s gaze, because he looked up. He started. “What, you’re serious?”

“Yeah?”

“Oh God, dude. Seriously?”

Enjolras pulled off his scarf and hat, lying them on the open chair next to him, and began to work on his coat. “Yeah, really. Why couldn't you say no?”

“Oh, dude. Come on. Okay, sure. Alright. I kinda.” Grantaire scratched his head. He sighed heavily. “Had a thing for you in high school?”

Enjolras stopped fiddling with his coat buttons and looked up in surprise. “Oh my God, no way, really?”

“Yeah, but it was no, y’know, no big deal hombre, pip-pip-cheerio mate, it’s in the past,” Grantaire said, voice varying for a bad Spanish accent to a bad British one, and Enjolras rather understood the way he closed his eyes in mortification.

“I had no idea.”

“I am well aware.”

“For how long?” Enjolras asked, at which point Grantaire subtly redirect the conversation to sloths and the fascinating things he’d learned from a Netflix nature documentary.

 *

“Hey,” Grantaire said. They’ve been idling by Grantaire’s car for almost twenty minutes. They’re freezing their asses off, but neither wanted the conversation to end, fiddling with their keys and shuffling their feet as they refused to let the date die. “I know you’re leaving in a couple days, and I know this can’t go anywhere. But you should know that this was the best date I’ve been on in years.” He laughed, his breath turning white. “Maybe ever. So, thank you for giving me that.”

“Well, this is the first date I’ve ever been on where I want to see the person again afterwards. And actually, I want to see you immediately. I don’t even want to let you go right now. And I’ve never felt like that before, and it’s weird, but it’s nice? So, thanks for that.”

Grantaire smiled at him, shuffling his feet. “Well, you have my number. Call me if you ever - I dunno, feel like it.”

“Can’t I see you before I leave?”

“You said you were leaving on Christmas, so I won’t see you then. And tomorrow’s Christmas Eve - you should spend that with your mom. And I have family too.”

“Oh, right, okay.” Fuck. “Well, I’ll be back.”

“Okay.”

“I will. To visit my mom and see Courfeyrac and Combeferre.” He paused. “And you.”

“If you say so.”

“I promise.”

“Okay.”

Enjolras leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Until next time.”

Grantaire smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes. “Until next time.”

* * *

“Thank you for coming,” his mom murmured to him. “I know church isn’t your favorite place, but it means a lot to me that you came.”

“It’s no trouble,” he whispered back. “It’s just an hour of my time.”

“Two hours,” she corrected, and he involuntarily winced. She patted his knee.

“Two hours. It’s nothing.”

They had exchanged presents before coming to the Christmas Eve service. Enjolras had mailed her gift as per usual, and it had been sitting underneath the tree when he had arrived. Apparently there was a package waiting for him at his post office, but she had bought him a few ties and a new coffee mug, just so he’d have something to open as well.

“Enjolras.” A hand landed on his shoulder. He looked up, and there was Combeferre and Courfeyrac, the former in a green tie and the latter in a red one, standing hand in hand behind him. “Surprised to see you here.”

“More surprised to see you. This place is okay with—” he nodded to their joined hands.

“If they aren’t, it hasn’t been said to our faces, which is about as much as we could hope for,” Courfeyrac replied. It wasn’t enough satisfy Enjolras, but both of them were beaming and content, so Enjolras just smiled back.

“Did you get the envelope I left on your desk? It’s all labeled, but it shows what I finished, and then it gives some notes for the remaining sections. I also made sure to share all of what I’ve done on Google docs with you, and if I have time after going back, I will continue to work on it.”

“I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done. I wish we could pay you—”

“Nonsense.” Enjolras waved his hand.

“Well,” Combeferre said. “Thank you anyway.”

Enjolras couldn’t remember the last time he’d been thanked. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done something worth being thanked for.

“You’re welcome.”

 *

He doesn’t pay much attention to most of the service, his eyes glazing while staring at the Christmas tree on the stage as he replays his date with Grantaire over and over. He tunes back in during the last of the sermon, right before the candle lighting.

“People don’t know true joy, the joy of life that truly burns unrestrained in your heart. Nowadays, most people will settle for content. Or not even that - they’ll settle for not lonely, not depressed, not feeling like they’ve lost every single day. In the darkness of life, how often do people truly feel Biblical joy? I am here to tell you, my friends, it’s not impossible. It’s not a fairy tale.

“It’s about your choices. In the midst of everything, you can choose joy. Or, you can choose the opportunity for joy. How, you ask?”

How turns out to be accepting Jesus into your heart, but something in his words stuck in Enjolras, like a thumbtack that leaves a hole once even after it had already left, and his mind turned them over and over as he held his candle and mouthed the words to “Silent Night.” 

* * *

“Thank you so much for visiting,” his mom said, hugging him close. As she let go, he caught her discreetly trying to wipe a tear from her eye, and his heart ached. “Now, you have the tin of cookies?”

“Yes,” he responded. She hasn’t traveled since before 9/11, and thus doesn’t know you are not allowed to have any food past the security check point, but he was planning on leaving the tin in Grantaire’s front seat, a silent thank you for the truck, if nothing else.

“Alright, you got to go or you’ll miss your plane.” She turned him around and pushed at his back. “Out you get.”

He stopped in the doorway, planting his feet against the shoving. “I love you, Ma.”

Her hands softened against his back. “You too, sweetheart.”

A second longer, and then she pushed again. “Go. Have a good New Years.”

He put his suitcase in the front seat, hopped into the driver’s side, and began the drive to the airport alone.

* * *

 “Stop crying. Stop crying.” He raised a hand and brushed off his tears, irrationally angry as they kept flowing. “Stop crying.”

“Why are you crying?”

Enjolras jerked the car to the side, hard, letting out a scream. He slammed on the brakes, sending the boy crashing head first into the back of the passenger’s seat.

The car came to a halt on the road after several seconds of spinning.

With a slamming heart, Enjolras quickly maneuvered it to the shoulder, put it in park, and turned the car off. Hands still shaking, he turned round to face the backseat.

“Who in the _hell_ are you?”

“Gavroche. I live with Grantaire.”

He had been mentioned several times during the week, but to this point, Enjolras hadn’t yet had the opportunity to meet him.

“How did you get in my _car?_ ”

“Grantaire mentioned when you were leaving, and it’s not hard to use whitepages to find your mom’s house. I know Grantaire’s truck; if you jimmy the back left door, it’ll open when locked. Wasn’t hard to tell them I was going to visit Courfeyrac and then just come here, sneak in, and wait for you to get so far that you’d miss your flight to take me back.”

Enjolras couldn’t even begin to process what’s actually going on here. “And what it the hell are you doing back there?”

“Stopping you,” Gavroche answered. “Why are you leaving?”

“My plane leaves in an hour.”

“But why aren’t you staying?”

“Because, Gavroche, I have a life back in New York. I need to get back to it.”

“Right now?”

No. “Yes.”

“Well, I say you don’t. You should go back. You’re making him sad.”

“Well, not everyone can be happy, Gavroche!” Enjolras cried, slamming his head against the steering wheel, digging his fingers into its foam.

“Why not?”

“Why not? Because…” Enjolras kept his head on the wheel for several long, quiet moments. Finally, without a word, he turned the car back on, did a U-Turn, and headed back to town.

* * *

“Text Grantaire that you’re coming back,” Enjolras thought to say only as they were pulling onto his street.

“Already done like, a half hour ago, dude. You drive like a Grandpa,” Gavroche said. He’s been suspiciously quiet the entire ride, letting Enjolras stew in his thoughts.

Grantaire was pacing in front of his house, his track worn obviously in the snow. He ran to the side of the sidewalk when he saw the truck pull onto the street, and by the time Enjolras had it in park, he was wrenching the back door open.

Enjolras was not sure what he was expecting, but by the time he jumped out of the car and made his way to the other side, Gavroche was in Grantaire’s arms. He was not fighting it, which Enjolras would have guessed would be his MO; instead, he was pliant, letting himself be held, and seemingly listening to the large strain of obscenities Enjolras could barely hear.

Eventually, Grantaire dropped him back down to the sidewalk. “Go inside,” he told him. “Eponine’s worried sick.”

“How was I supposed to know she’d text Courfeyrac?” Gavroche grumbled, but he turned and stomped back inside. As the door slammed, Grantaire turned back to Enjolras.

He ran a hand through his hair. “I am so sorry. He probably made you miss your flight. I have no idea what got into him. He’s often – difficult, I guess, but he’s not like _that._ ”

“He just loves you a lot.”

Grantaire looked at him strangely. “Uh. Um, I mean, I guess? But don’t worry, I’ll pay for your return flight, don’t even think about it.”

“You don’t have to pay for anything, Grantaire.”

“I do. He was my responsibility tonight, and he made you miss your flight.”

“I didn’t come back to bring him back.” Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “No, I mean, I did. I wouldn’t have taken him with me on the flight, obviously. I was bringing him back. But that wasn’t the only reason. I mean, who leaves on Christmas? Who even does that? It’ll make my mom sad, and who makes their mom sad on Christmas? And I should finish what I started with Courfeyrac’s grant, that’s not cool of me to just leave. And who knows, if we get it, maybe they could hire me on? Who knows?

“And I wanted to see you again, Grantaire. I know we, like just started this shit, but like, God, do you know how long it’s been since I _wanted_ anything personal? I can’t even remember. And somehow, it feels good to want something. And it kinda seemed like maybe it was something I could actually have. I don’t know what my plans are for the future, and I'm not sure what I'll want permanently, but I haven't felt loved in so long, and I haven't felt wanted in so long, and I haven't _wanted_ in so long, and I _want_ to be _here,_ and right now, I think that’s enough.”

“Well,” Grantaire said after several long moments. His eyes were moist, and he was blinking slightly too often. “Merry Christmas to you too.”

There’s no response to that beyond grabbing him by the lapels and pulling him into a holiday kiss, like he wanted to since he first laid on eyes on him. And now that he knew it would most likely be welcome, he did just that.

Grantaire’s mouth was warm, though his nose was cold.

The kiss broke, and Enjolras let his head fall onto Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire’s hand comes up to cradle his head, and it was large, so large it covered almost his whole head, and as he started to stroke, Enjolras let out a helpless laugh.

“What?” Grantaire asks, more an exhale than a word.

“Nothing,” Enjolras said. He smiled into Grantaire's coat. “Nothing. I’m just happy.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Fun story – this was done before Christmas, so it could be a Christmas story, but good ol’ Michigan (after reading this - CAN YOU BELIEVE I'M FROM THERE?!) decided an ice storm was a jolly good idea and blew out my Internet and cable for a couple days.
> 
> So it’s later than I wanted. I hope people are still in the holiday spirit! Merry Christmas, everyone.
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, kudo/comment if you'd like, it's always great encouragement. 
> 
> Say hi on [tumblr](http://raeldaza.tumblr.com) if you so want.


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